


Keepsakes

by jenna221b



Series: Good Omens Prompts [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Love (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Developing Relationship, Ficlet Collection, Fluff and Angst, GOC2020, Good Omens 30th Anniversary, Good Omens Celebration, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, One Shot Collection, POV Alternating, Snippets, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:35:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 13,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23951665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna221b/pseuds/jenna221b
Summary: Aziraphale’s face feels suddenly warm, like he’s just watched Crowley perform a rather special miracle. “Well,” he says, “fancy you remembering a little thing like that.”----------------------6000 years gives you plenty of things to remember.Series of ficlets written for the Anniversary Gifts prompts for the Good Omens Celebration 2020.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Prompts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840228
Comments: 197
Kudos: 264
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	1. Paper (2007)

Aziraphale catches Crowley at it one afternoon. He’s drinking tea and just so happens to be people-watching by the window when a flash of red hair makes him do a double-take. Yes, it’s Crowley— he must have walked from Mayfair, the Bentley is nowhere to be seen. But, instead of heading towards A.Z. Fell & Co, Crowley keeps on strolling— casual, but still with some air of purpose about him.

Aziraphale hums in thought. Crowley is now directly in front of the competing store that Aziraphale now (religiously) recommends to anyone so much as setting one foot inside his bookshop. He watches, and hides a smile behind his mug when Crowley fumbles with the front door clearly marked as ‘Push’. It only takes a few minutes for him to emerge outside again, carrier bag in hand.

Aziraphale has just enough time to set his mug down, hurry to the back and make a good show of ‘sorting shelves’ before Crowley enters.

“Just a tick!” Aziraphale calls. He pulls out a few hardbacks at random, then slots them back in place. Very convincing.

When he reaches the front of the shop, Crowley is leaning against the doorframe.

“That was distinctly longer than a tick, angel,” is his greeting. Then: “Catch.”

And, for all his fretting, Aziraphale is _quite_ a good catch, actually. His hands clasp the bag with ease and it bears a familiar weight. He blinks at the logo on the bag as if he’s never seen it before.

“Consorting with the enemy, my dear?”

Crowley snorts. “Hardly the enemy. Think you’re responsible for their profits.” He shuts the door, adding, “They even got me signing up for a loyalty card,” which is probably the most un-demonic thing he’s said so far.

“I thought you didn’t read.”

“ _You_ read.”

“Well, of course, but—”

Aziraphale stops. He’s automatically pulled the book out of the bag. It’s a paperback, a copy of _The Importance of Being Earnest_. He considers the cover: Penguin Popular Classics.

“Bollocks, you don’t have that one already, do you? I have it on good authority that it just came out.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tuts. “It was published in—”

“Oh, don’t play coy, angel. I know you collect all the editions like tourists do with bloody fridge magnets.”

Now, Aziraphale could choose the obvious option which is to take offence at this comparison because honestly, even the most gaudy of books are not remotely in the same category as those ghastly things. But, instead, he’s brought up short.

Because, yes, Crowley is quite right. He does collect the editions, but they’re not on display. They don’t even have a designated shelf. They’re in a subtle little pile, tucked in one of the farthest corners of the shop. Hardly noticeable at all.

Aziraphale’s face feels suddenly warm, like he’s just watched Crowley perform a rather special miracle. “Well,” he says, “fancy you remembering a little thing like that.”

Crowley shrugs. “Ehh- not little, actually. I was only passing through and it reminded me, that’s all.”

And that is so blatantly not true but so blatantly lovely that Aziraphale can hardly tease him about it. He has a lunch invitation to make, and wonders if he can make a convincing enough detour to purchase a fridge magnet. It would be the proper thing to do, after all.


	2. Cotton (2019)

It turns out that after saving the world, museum dates are a lot less stressful. As furtive Antichrist Reports are no more, they’ve taken to actually discussing the exhibitions as they meander through.

This is a novel concept that has resulted in one of Crowley’s new favourite past-times. For example, this particular one is a retrospective of fashion throughout the decades. It doesn’t go nearly far back enough for the two of them, but it still results in a spontaneous game of declaring, “I invented that,” with increasing volume. Crowley is sure he’s unnerved at least two innocent people into believing they are the world’s most obvious time-travellers.

They’ve now trailed off to the back of the tour-group they infiltrated, feeling rather like misbehaving pupils. Then, Aziraphale abruptly points at the latest glass cabinet.

“Oh,” he says, all butter wouldn’t melt. “I used to have one of those.”

Crowley stares and wonders if his glasses are dramatically altering his perception of reality. He blinks, peeks over the rims, and marvels at the image staying the same.

“Nah, you, you couldn’t have,” he gets out.

The shirt is white and relatively plain and simple. Except, the billowing sleeves look like the lovechild of Colin Firth’s _Pride and Prejudice_ shirt and Kate Bush’s ghostly get-up in _Wuthering Heights_.

“I would have remembered something like that,” Crowley says. _I would have burned it into my brain_ , he does not say.

Aziraphale glances at him out of the corner of his eye. He’s smirking but also somehow simultaneously has an impeccable poker face. _Shit_ , Crowley thinks, _maybe I have seen it but not really **seen** it? _

He’s mentally cycled through a handful of decades in the space of a second when Aziraphale laughs.

“Good to keep you on your toes,” he says. And then, the absolute bastard trots off to re-join the tour group. “Do keep up, dear!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i woke up with that line about Colin Firth and Kate Bush and then cobbled together the rest l m a o


	3. Leather (1941)

There’s a quiet familiarity to the bookshop. Crowley takes his time to breathe it all in, savouring the lingering scent of old pages. He runs his fingers carefully along the spines of books and, if he closes his eyes, it’s almost like they’re leaning into him. A little welcome home. And, perhaps to anyone else that would be silly, really—it’s just a place. But, Crowley knows it’s always been much more than that.

He rocks back and forward on his heels and only winces a little. By all rights, Crowley knows his feet should still be burning. He’s sure Aziraphale must have done _something_ , but he’s not mentioned it. In fact, he’s hardly mentioned anything at all. A few minutes ago, he’d hurried off, claiming he was just fetching something, and left Crowley in the back room, holding his breath.

Even now, Crowley concentrates on being silent as he slowly moves to the front of the shop. He’s afraid if he talks too loudly, move too suddenly, he’ll ruin the spell, somehow. It’s been a long time. An hour ago, he wouldn’t have imagined he’d be welcome back here.

He’s at the till when he sees Aziraphale, kneeling by the door. There’s a new, sharp smell to the air, and Crowley realises it’s shoe polish. Aziraphale is polishing Crowley’s shoes.

It’s a strange thing, but Crowley still is hesitant to speak. There’s a reverent stillness in the air, in Aziraphale’s slow, careful movements, how he props the shoes up by the doorframe too gently, like he’s afraid they’ll break in his hands.

Crowley clears his throat. Aziraphale jumps, but he doesn’t look up.

“You don’t have to do that,” Crowley says, voice hushed.

“I- I know,” Aziraphale replies. He looks up, his eyes darting away from Crowley’s face. “But, you see, I—I want to. Oh, that is, I’d like to. If—if you’d let me.”

_Oh, how I’ve missed you_ , Crowley does not say. Instead, he smiles, and nods at the shoes. “How long do they take to dry, then?”

Aziraphale laughs shakily. “Oh, _ages_ ,” he says, smiling in return as he stands.

And, finally, Crowley dares to ask: “The whole night?”

Aziraphale’s eyes are over-bright. “Yes, I’m afraid so,” he whispers. (He does not say _I want to kiss you_ ).


	4. Fruit (1967)

He should not be drinking alone. It’s easy, at first, to pretend it will help. Floating, bubbly, high above everything—relax, don’t think about it, don’t think about anything at all. But, by the third glass, the weight plummets back onto his chest. Long gulps of what had tasted like crisp, sweet apples now turn sour on his tongue.

_How righteous of you. You have given him the key to his own destruction._

Aziraphale shoves the wine away with a clatter, not remotely caring if it spills. _I should have made you stay_ , he thinks. _We could go wherever you like, anything to stop you from—_

Aziraphale picks up the phone. He had sworn to himself not to, but it’s not the first time he’s broken a promise. The dialling tone is a long, painful knell. He closes his eyes. Crowley had told him, once, about a particular trick he’d use for his demonic miracles, like making sure the Bentley never ran out of petrol. As long as you put enough energy into believing the car will always start, the other, more logical universes bearing down upon it simply do not materialise.

Aziraphale bites down hard on his lip. He silently pleads and prays away every possible universe in which Crowley never picks up.

_Click._ “Hello?”

Aziraphale exhales in a dizzying rush. He covers his mouth with one hand.

“Hello? …Speaking…?”

Crowley sounds a touch tired, but that’s nothing completely unusual, nothing hopeless. Suddenly, Aziraphale thinks he might have to hang up then and there, his throat constricting, too tight to speak.

But, then, a quiet miracle: “Angel? Aziraphale, I know it’s you.”

God forgive him, Aziraphale can’t abandon him twice.

“Oh, hello! I am sorry,” he says with a brightness he doesn’t yet feel. “You see, I… I didn’t know if I had gone through—”


	5. Wood (1020)

They had rowed—not horrifically, mind you, but just enough for Crowley to still feel the sting of it. Aziraphale’s parting words _—“Away with you, wicked serpent,”—_ were too much on the serious side compared to the slight teasing Crowley has become accustomed to.

He huffs. His breath unfurls in front of his face like smoke. He doesn’t know whether any good—evil—will come from storming through the woods, but he supposes it’s better to be miserable and doing something than be miserable and stuck. The trouble is, he doesn’t know for certain if Aziraphale takes his words as a not very successful cajole or a cut-and-dry temptation. The trouble is, while it’s technically a demonic activity, they are both far too good at sulking. Satan, it could be years, decades even, before they ever—

It’s the fire he notices first. It’s a modest sight, but there’s a crackle from the logs every few seconds, little sparks leaping into the air. Aziraphale sits, palms facing the flames. In the dark of the night, it looks like he is glowing.

Crowley steps forward. A twig snaps underneath him, but Aziraphale does not so much as flinch. Emboldened, Crowley edges nearer.

“Not going to smite me if I get too close?” he says, trying to muster up a faint smile.

Aziraphale peers down his nose at him, looking distinctly unimpressed. “By all means, leave if that would make you more comfortable,” he shoots back icily.

Crowley shrugs. He shuffles closer until he’s directly opposite Aziraphale. Crowley watches the shadows from the flames wavering across his face. A minute passes, maybe two. They feel like centuries.

Aziraphale sighs. There’s some force behind it, like it’s a new wordless way of saying _Well, **really.**_

“I do wish…” He trails off.

_What do you wish for, angel? I have so many—_

“I do wish you wouldn’t—” Aziraphale breaks off again. He glances up at the sky, so quick that anyone else would have missed it. Crowley, of course, doesn’t. “I do wish you wouldn’t say such… _things_ out in the open, just like that.” Aziraphale folds his arms. “It’s rather foolish of you, anyone could be listening.”

Crowley blinks. This is markedly different from the usual slant of their arguments: _Why, I’m offended you would even imply such a thing. Now, get out of my sight._ He nods slowly. It’s a fair point.

“Can’t be listening all the time, though,” Crowley points out reasonably. “You’ve still not got a memo about…” He gestures towards the fire, and mimes the swiping of a sword.

Aziraphale tilts his head. He raises one arm, and his hand drifts very close to the flames.

“Oi, careful,” Crowley says. “You’ll—”

“Burn?” Aziraphale is staring at him. “You do realise,” he says mildly, “you could turn this into hellfire any moment you like?”

Silence.

Crowley hardly dares to breathe. “So… why don’t you just move away?”

Aziraphale’s lips twitch upwards. Quick as a flash, his hand plunges into the flames. Crowley lunges forward before he can stop himself. And then, their fingertips are brushing against one another, quite unharmed, within the fire.

“We’ll shake on it, then,” Aziraphale murmurs. His eyes reflect the flickering light. He does not pull away.


	6. Iron (1793)

It’s an odd thing, trying to thank someone without saying a word. Aziraphale hopes he’s succeeding at it. He hopes Crowley can hear it in how their _crepes for lunch_ has already turned _into crepes and then a glass or two of wine_ _and—oh, honestly, we might as well order a bottle._

He forgets himself a little when he goes to pick up his fork, flexing his wrist gingerly. He catches himself a moment too late. While he cannot see Crowley’s eyes, he can somehow tell that his gaze is very much fixed and piercing behind those glasses.

“That better be the first and last time I see you clapped in irons, angel,” Crowley says.

It’s said lightly enough, but Aziraphale can still hear the seriousness lurking underneath. And, after such a long time, perhaps _that_ is the odd thing to get used to: a demon telling an angel to be careful.

“I can’t promise you that, my dear fellow,” he replies, matching the tone. It’s not the time (he doesn’t _want_ it to be the time) to voice things like, _Have you heard anything?_ And: _My only correspondence has been one reprimand. Do you think no news is good news?_ Instead, all he says is, “Now, are there any wiles I should be thwarting?”

Crowley smirks. “Oh, yes, I have great plans for tyranny,” he drawls, leaning forward in his seat.

“Do tell.”

Crowley grins, showing teeth. “Stealing cutlery from unsuspecting waiters.”

Aziraphale snorts into his wine. _You made that up_ , he thinks, with that thrill of delight that only comes from knowing someone completely. _You made that up just to make me laugh._


	7. Wool (2008)

Crowley’s feet are edging underneath the tartan blanket again. If he keeps this up, it’s going to fall off the arm of the couch, and be of absolutely no use. Aziraphale knows this because he’s been watching it happen for the past five minutes.

_Oh, won’t you just move the bloody thing_ , he wants to say. _Place it properly **on** you. Do you really think I keep it there just for decoration?_

Of course, he stays silent. Saying anything more would mean admitting that he’s watched Crowley do this routine for so many years. It would mean admitting that he’s noticed everything about Crowley: the way he sits when he wants to feel at home, even when he plainly isn’t. It’s like he’s always half-perched, ready to strike or flee.

The blanket really is the most frustrating thing. Because, when it comes down to it, Aziraphale knows it’s just window-dressing. Oh, yes, he can slap his name on the sign outside, pretend for centuries that this is his home. But, if he is truly honest with himself, he knows it is only temporary. Everything could be taken away in an instant. That is why the blanket must stay on the arm of the couch.

Crowley shivers and stands abruptly, neatly whisking his feet free. The blanket falls to the floor. Crowley frowns, staring out at the window. A distant rumble of thunder sounds. Aziraphale doesn’t know what he expects to see. Another flood?

“I’d better call it a night, angel,” Crowley says. “I felt—not sure. Something.”

“If you must,” Aziraphale says, pretending not to know exactly what he means. _Do you ever get the awful feeling that we’re running out of time?_


	8. Bronze (1945)

The city is tumultuous. For a good while, Crowley finds it inescapable: a wall of sound in every street, people cheering, laughing, crying. But then, once he adjusts, he learns how to pick everything apart: there are threads of anger there, and of grief and hurt amongst the love.

Crowley supposes that’s why it never occurs to him to go to the bookshop. Underneath all the noise, Aziraphale has left a quiet path for him to follow. It’s nothing visible or obvious. It’s just a gut feeling, a warmth in the chest that says: _yes, this is the way to me_. Crowley slips through the crowds like a ghost.

Aziraphale is not at their usual bench. But, it’s easy to find him. After all, it’s nothing short of miraculous that this particular spot of St James’s Park is empty. And, when he gets closer still, Crowley realises why. There’s some kind of energy surrounding the area, nothing truly aggressive, but determined all the same: _Leave me be. Just leave me be_.

Aziraphale is sitting on the white stone steps. His head is tilted slightly upward, eyes closed. The sun is striking the bronze statue above, casting him in an amber glow. If Crowley squints, the light almost makes it look like Aziraphale’s wings are outstretched, mimicking the frozen representation of Peace.

For a moment, Crowley is very nearly afraid that he won’t be able to step any closer. Then, the very air seems to exhale. The sun dances on the pathway, just in front of his feet, like it’s beckoning him forward. He follows.

When Crowley sits down next him, Aziraphale opens his eyes. He blinks, slow, steady. He looks weary and suddenly very far away. But, Crowley swallows his instinct down—why should he plead _, “Come back,”_ when Aziraphale is right beside him?

“Is there… anything I can do?” Crowley says.

Aziraphale sighs. He closes his eyes once more. This time, when he opens them, there’s a little light in the pupils, as if the amber glow still around them has filtered through somehow. One hand reaches out, and squeezes Crowley’s knee very gently.

“Just… sit with me?” Aziraphale whispers.

And so, Crowley does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The statue above Aziraphale is the South African Royal Artillery Memorial, described as a ‘bronze winged figure of Peace subduing a horse representing War.’


	9. Pottery (41 A.D.)

By the time they have finished their meal, Crowley’s shoulders are fully relaxed. He’s sipping at his wine, leaning back casually in his seat. Whatever had been causing the awful frown lines in his forehead, Aziraphale is glad to note they have all but dissipated.

“I must say, I am glad I bumped into you,” Aziraphale starts, then stops. He is not quite sure how he planned to end that sentence, but for some reason it sounds just right as it is.

One of Crowley’s eyebrows raises above his sunglasses. Aziraphale finds that he misses being able to read each passing expression in Crowley’s eyes. But, he supposes it’s not all bad. From the little creases around the lenses, he can still tell Crowley is smiling behind his cup of wine.

“I like this,” Crowley says, gesturing towards Aziraphale’s brooch: golden, angelic wings straining upwards. Crowley sets his cup down, and Aziraphale sees that his smile has stretched into a smirk—one that looks rather fond. “Do you like giving people little clues about you, angel?”

Aziraphale tuts. “Well, I don’t know what good that would do. You’d be the only one to notice it.”

Crowley laughs. “Fair point.” He stands, and Aziraphale hurries to mirror him, nearly tripping over his stool.

“Oh, leaving already?” he asks. _Oh really, he obviously is, isn’t he, what a redundant statement—_

Crowley winces, lips curling in distaste. “M’afraid so. Got a temptation report to make up.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. He may not know everything about Hell’s workings, but he does know making up a temptation report does not sound like very successful demonic activity. “Well, do mind how you go, won’t you?”

Crowley tips his glasses down for half a second, just long enough for Aziraphale to catch a wink. “I’ll think of something. Always do.” Then, he shifts a little from one foot to the other. “What about you? How long _are_ you in Rome for?”

“Well, you see, I- I only had one blessing to do, and it took such a short time that I thought I’d, well, see the sights, as it were.”

Crowley smiles again. “So, you’re on a nice little holiday. Only you.”

“I suppose you could call it that, but—”

“Maybe we’ll run into each other again, then. Us being in the same area and everything, wouldn’t really raise any… whatever it is that—”

“Eyebrows,” Aziraphale finishes without thinking. “And, yes, I suppose that would be—”

“Right, then.” Crowley leans across the table, and pushes Aziraphale’s cup closer. “See you tomorrow, maybe. Don’t forget your souvenir.”

“Oh, yes, right, then! Tomorrow,” Aziraphale echoes, flustered, and automatically reaches for the cup. “But I’d hardly call this a souvenir, Crowley.”

Just as he says it, his thumb brushes across something engraved on the cup. He looks down and in that instant Crowley must have left, because when Aziraphale glances up again, he is nowhere to be found.

Aziraphale sits down again, tracing the engraving. It’s a pair of wings, perfectly matched to that of his brooch, placed right in the centre of the cup. It certainly wasn’t there before.

Aziraphale leans back, and discreetly hides the cup within his robe. He can’t stop himself from smiling. Tomorrow, then. That’s something new. He is often used to decades at the very least before stumbling across Crowley again. But, Aziraphale finds he never worries about them running out of things to say to one another.


	10. Tin (1960)

Crowley doesn’t tell Aziraphale everything. If he’s really honest with himself, he never did. But it’s different, now. Yes, he can say the gap of a hundred years has been bridged. Visits to the bookshop have slowly become commonplace again; chats that are framed as meetings for The Arrangement, but quickly turn into late night rambles and laughter. But, Crowley holds certain things back. If he lets on that things are getting too tricky for comfort on his end, he will inevitably end up mentioning how he needs Holy Water. He doesn’t want to have another argument like that. Perhaps Aziraphale would then be the one imposing a century of silence.

In the end, Crowley’s tentative balancing act does not matter. He couldn’t have predicted it.

They’ve had just a touch too much to drink. Whisky this time, which is always a risk that the conversation could veer into dangerously maudlin territory. Crowley stands up to search for the now missing bottle when he sways, hip bumping harshly against Aziraphale’s desk. Papers go flying, but there’s also a faint, metallic sounding clunk.

“Bollocks! Sorry,” Crowley says. He crouches down. Amongst the papers, there’s a small piece of metal, something that looks like it was gold-plated in one lifetime, but is now old and tarnished. Crowley picks it up, takes off his glasses to give it a proper look. It seems like it’s a decorative medal, fashioned in the shape of a cross. But there, intertwined vertically, is a sword.

When Crowley stands up, still holding it, Aziraphale has frozen in place in his armchair. And suddenly, Crowley realises that perhaps Aziraphale is holding things back, too.

“What’s this, then?” he asks. He consciously sobers up without announcing it.

Aziraphale looks away. “Just a bit of tin,” he replies. He glances away then abruptly rounds on Crowley, standing up and crossing the room to meet him. “You could get rid of it,” he breathes, like he’s been seized by the greatest idea. “You could burn it.”

“Ahh, we… could.” Crowley looks around for one of Aziraphale’s candles.

But, Aziraphale is shaking his head. “No,” he says. His eyes are wide. “I’m saying you could really _burn_ it, Crowley.”

It takes a moment for Aziraphale’s meaning to sink in.

“Wha—no! Not with you in the room,” Crowley says. He steps back, as if flames have appeared between them, the jovial atmosphere evaporating all at once.

Something in Aziraphale’s eyes darkens. “Oh, well, isn’t that curious,” he says coldly. “Perhaps now, you’ll think twice about your…your _request_.”

“That’s not fair,” Crowley says, stung. “It’s not the same bloody thing, and you know it.”

“Yes, do tell me about the things I _apparently know_.” Aziraphale sighs. His hands reach up and cover his mouth. “I can’t stop—” he whispers. “Crowley, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“I’m not the one who brought it up,” Crowley snaps, then immediately wishes he hadn’t.

Aziraphale’s hands drop. He swallows, and his stifled wince tells Crowley he has now sobered up, too.

“You’re right,” Aziraphale says. For one horrible moment, Crowley is afraid he might cry. “You’re—you’re quite right. I’m sorry.”

Crowley slips the cross into his pocket. “I’ll get rid of it. Later, I promise,” he says.

There’s a long, long pause in which Crowley resists the ever-growing temptation to wind back the clock. _I’m sorry. Let’s not leave it like this. Ask me not to go home_ , he thinks. _Ask me to stay tonight._

“Thank you. That’s—awfully decent of you,” Aziraphale says. He looks pointedly away from Crowley, like they’re strangers.

Crowley bites back the, “Not decent at all, actually.” He leaves, and the lingering burn of drink on his tongue feels heavy with regret.


	11. Steel (2019)

It doesn’t take long for everyone else to disperse from the tarmac. If Crowley wasn’t breathing harshly, still covered in ash and Lord knows what else, Aziraphale would have been afraid he’d somehow dreamt it.

Then, something drops with a loud clatter. Crowley dives and picks it up in one jerky movement. Aziraphale realises it’s the rod he’s been carrying all this time, something that must have once been part of the poor Bentley.

“I suspect both of us have rather a lot to be… filled in on, so to speak,” Aziraphale prompts, keeping his voice light.

Crowley jumps, as if surprised that Aziraphale is standing next to him. “C-could say that, yeah,” he says. “I had a—” He breaks off, doubles over. At first, Aziraphale fears the worst. But, he’s only laughing, albeit slightly too high-pitched and verging into hysterics.

“What?” Aziraphale asks, hoping to bring him back. “What is it?”

Crowley straightens. He makes an obvious and only slightly failed attempt to control his voice: “Was about to say I—I had a _hellish_ journey.”

Aziraphale thinks of the flames along with the car careening into view. “Yes, I gathered,” he says. He can’t help but notice that Crowley is still holding onto the rod.

“What about you?” Crowley’s eyes flicker up and down. “Are you feeling alright?”

Aziraphale rubs a hand over his waistcoat. “Yes, all in one piece.”

Crowley stares. Then, he nods, blinks hard, and sniffs. “Good. That’s—good.”

_You’re shaking_ , Aziraphale thinks. It’s his turn to scrutinise; if Crowley’s free hand is anything to go by, then his other must also be covered in angry red imprints, presumably from clutching the steering wheel.

“Crowley, forgive me, but…” Aziraphale reaches forward, and carefully takes hold of the rod, too. Crowley’s grip tightens even more.

“Nothing will happen,” Aziraphale says gently. “I promise you.”

Crowley sucks through his teeth, glances up. “Ooh, don’t say that. Tempting fate.”

“I’m doing nothing of the sort.” Aziraphale reaches forward again, strokes Crowley’s knuckles fleetingly. “Crowley, my dear. It’s alright. You can let go.”

And, miraculously, Crowley does. Aziraphale quickly sets the rod down, just in time for Crowley to cough and sway a little on his feet.

“Yeah, I don’t—um, I don’t feel, ah, very well,” he says.

Aziraphale bites his lip, thinking. “There must be a bus stop somewhere,” he says. He’s hesitant to miracle them anywhere, just in case, but Crowley does look so terribly pale. He readies himself to click his fingers. “I could—”

“Nah, don’t bother.” Crowley wobbles again, but then exhales, steadying himself. “Maybe a walk will do me good, actually.”

“If you’re sure, my dear. We can take as long as we like.”

Crowley smiles weakly. “Best not be all day about it though.”

His hand is still shaking. Aziraphale makes his decision. He takes Crowley’s hand, intertwining their fingers, praying he can soothe whatever wounds are there. Crowley’s hand instantly squeezes—not enough to hurt, but enough for Aziraphale to read _Please don’t disappear_ in it.

“Right, then,” Aziraphale says. His thumb is repeatedly tracing over the back of Crowley’s hand. “Off we go.”

And, together, they take the first step.


	12. Silk (1800)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when I find myself in times of trouble, A.J. Crowley comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, 'michael's a wanker'

“So,” Aziraphale hums. He still looks a bit harried from Gabriel and Sandalphon’s visit, but he’s slowly starting to smile. “Chocolates?”

“Tradition,” Crowley explains, even though they both have never been to a bookshop opening, and so have never noticed the presence or lack of chocolates there.

“I see,” Aziraphale says, in that tone that says _I don’t really see, but I do find it charming that you think so, dear._ He painstakingly eases the black silk ribbon off the box, then folds it neatly to place on top of his desk. Crowley can’t help but find it endearing. Aziraphale prises the lid off, and his smile only grows. “Oh, _Crowley_ , they look wonderful!”

Crowley resists the urge to say, _Is wonderful one of your favourite words?_ and _please keep saying it_. He just raises an eyebrow. “Hardly going to give you rubbish-looking chocolates am I? I know about you and your standards.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. But, he’s looking around the room with a content sort of energy, humming again. “I’m sure I have a liqueur somewhere… I won’t be long.”

He drifts over to the back of the shop. And, there’s something, something in that moment of seeing Aziraphale alone and just out of reach, that makes Crowley pause. He thinks back to how lucky they both were. What if he had decided to pop round in the evening? _Oh, you wouldn’t have told me_ , Crowley realises with a shiver of fear. He is reminded that everything they have is balancing on a knife-edge. _Would you really let them take you away, just like that?_

“Aha!” Aziraphale calls triumphantly. He’s brandishing a bottle. “Crowley, won’t you fetch some glasses?”

Crowley gives himself a shake. “No, you’ve got to give an opening speech first!” he calls back. “Your demanding public awaits!”

“Well, you _are_ demanding.”

“Speech!”

“Crowley, do shut up and have a drink with me.”


	13. Lace (1862)

Crowley’s fingers are drumming on the table, over and over. In fact, Aziraphale doesn’t think they’ve stopped drumming all throughout their afternoon tea. It’s infuriating (it’s frightening). Aziraphale keeps frantically trying to find reasons to dither, anything to stop them from leaving the table. But, he finds his mouth is dry and void of excuses.

Pinkie; ring finger; middle finger; index—on and on it goes, a nervous rhythm that sets Aziraphale’s teeth on edge. Perhaps he’ll somehow wear a hole in the doily, Aziraphale thinks wildly, desperately. Then, they’ll simply have to stay and apologise to—someone, anyone, surely?

He is so afraid that he knows exactly what this means. Whenever Crowley gets so, so quiet like this, he will inevitably say something that will make Aziraphale worry about him even more. Things like: _Nobody ever has to know_ and _I’ll be fine_. And, Aziraphale has become rather good at sensing all the other things going unsaid.

He is just about to insist on them having another cup of tea when Crowley leans forward.

“Please, Aziraphale,” he says, an urgent undertone. “Will you walk with me?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says. (How can he say anything else?) “St James’s?”

_Don’t ask it of me. Oh, my darling, please don’t ask it of me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's my birthday today so I wrote this one in advance yesterday! sorry this one doesn't have a celebratory tone though lol--lighter ones will come, promise! <3


	14. Ivory (2019)

Not for the first time, Crowley thinks that perhaps they should be treating this more seriously than they actually are. He reminds himself that the ship of Complete Seriousness had already sailed by the time he had somehow agreed to Aziraphale’s magician get-up. In all fairness, that was before the fake moustache.

Ah well, Crowley thinks, trying not to smile at Aziraphale fussing with his props again. The world’s going to get more difficult regardless. They might as well have some fun with it while they can.

“How do you suppose it will be… announced?” Aziraphale asks.

He’s not looking at Crowley as he says it. He’s staring through the huge glass windows, watching children filter into the tent outside. They’re in the Dowling’s large, unused dining room. There’s a layer of dust on every item of ostentatious furniture, including the grand piano that has probably never been touched. Aziraphale has stacked his playing cards and magician’s hat on top of the lid haphazardly.

“What do you mean?” Crowley says, absentmindedly running his finger down the piano keys.

“Well,” Aziraphale says. “When the—um, creature…arrives, will there be any—oh, I don’t know, _fanfare_ or—"

Crowley snorts. “How should _I_ know? It’s not like we have a weekly Hellhound ceremony. What were _you_ expecting, something like…”

The piano suddenly starts playing a funeral march, keys moving like a musically-inclined ghost is pressing them.

Aziraphale starts to laugh. It’s a little too nervous-sounding, but it’s a laugh all the same. “Oh, you _are_ awful,” Aziraphale says.

As if in reply, the piano stops, then plays the opening chorus of Handel’s Hallelujah.

Aziraphale turns to look at Crowley properly. “I had no idea you played.”

“What? I’m just making the keys move,” Crowley says blankly. “That’s not the same thing as playing properly.”

Aziraphale’s eyes briefly light up with a spark of amusement. He gestures, wiggling his fingers in a clumsy imitation of chord positions on his left hand. “Yes, but your hands are playing along,” he says. The piano falters, then falls into stunned silence.

Then, without missing a beat, Aziraphale says, “You’d better go. We can’t have one solitary waiter turning up late, security will get suspicious.”

“Nah,” Crowley says. He checks his cuff-links, gives the piano a brief, farewell pat. “Walk in anywhere with enough confidence, no-one will question that you don’t belong.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Aziraphale says dubiously. “Do be careful, won’t you?”

“Should be telling you that,” Crowley says, doing his best to ignore that something Hellish that isn’t himself will be anywhere near Aziraphale. “You’re a nightmare with those cards.”

Aziraphale huffs. “I’m perfectly capable, thank you. Now, do get a move on!”

But, by the time Crowley has almost left the room, Aziraphale speaks again:

“So, I’ll—I’ll see you when it’s all over?”

Crowley turns back. “You’ll see me anyway,” he says. “I’ll keep an eye out the whole time. When I sense… something I’ll just—” He shrugs. “Dramatically drop a quiche, you’ll get the gist.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Ah, that _does_ put me at ease,” he says, which is probably meant to come across as much more sarcastic than it really sounds.


	15. Crystal (1929)

The quiet hours are difficult—that timeless drifting somewhere in between the dead of night and the early hours of the morning. Aziraphale often finds a thought, unbidden, will cross his mind. Perhaps it’s something he’s read, even something from many years ago, or a snippet of an overheard conversation. He’ll turn, a question hovering, almost on his lips _(what do you think about—?)_ before remembering he is alone.

He starts a ritual, every new year. It’s silly and sentimental, but well. He _is_ alone. He can indulge himself, just for this.

Two glasses of champagne are poured. He waits, far, far beyond the twelfth stroke of midnight. Only after the clock has announced that it is past three in the morning does he even think of raising a glass. It’s the devil’s hour, after all. He hopes Crowley would have appreciated that. It should at the very least deserve a charming smirk.

Each time Aziraphale picks up the glass, he tries to keep his hand steady. But, he inevitably knocks it against the other glass. The harsh chime of cut crystal rings out in the bookshop, and for that one moment, Aziraphale allows himself to hope.

_Here’s to you, wherever you are. Please be safe. Shall I see you this year?_


	16. Tea (1967)

Crowley doesn’t expect Aziraphale to actually come out of the bookshop. It’s gone eleven at night; if anything, the only thing Crowley expects is a lingering look from the window before the blinds are eventually pulled shut. Instead, Aziraphale marches out the front door, not even wearing his coat. When he reaches the Bentley, he gently raps on the driver’s side window, as if Crowley can’t see him. Crowley pauses before indicating with a hesitant hand-wave that the door is unlocked.

Aziraphale opens the door. “Aren’t you coming in?” he asks, so easily, as if nothing has changed.

Crowley swallows. “I… if you’ll…”

His voice dies in his throat when he sees Aziraphale glance down. The tartan thermos is still sitting there, exactly where Crowley had left it a week ago. Aziraphale opens his mouth. Here it comes, Crowley braces himself, the moment where he’s ruined everything.

“Come on.” Aziraphale sands aside, pulling the car door further back. “Goodness, you look frozen through.”

It’s half-true, Crowley supposes. But, privately, he doesn’t really think he’s shaking from the cold.

When they’re inside the shop, Aziraphale immediately clicks the kettle on to boil. Making tea is something he’s never used a miracle for. It gives Crowley about five minutes for the panic to well and truly build in his chest.

“Have I ruined it?” he whispers. He doesn’t mean to say it out loud.

Aziraphale freezes, mid-stir of the teapot. He slowly sets the teaspoon down. “What _are_ you talking about?” he asks, so kind, too bloody kind.

Crowley looks up, wills away the fierce burn of tears. “I think I’ve—” His voice splinters in the middle. “I think I’ve made a mistake.”

Aziraphale looks at him for a long, searching moment. Then, he shakes his head. He’s smiling a small, sad smile that somehow looks like forgiveness.

“No,” he says simply. “I’ve…” He clears his throat. “I’ve thought about it a great deal.”

“I _know_.” Crowley glances up again, and blinks and blinks and blinks. “So, why—”

“Crowley, please look at me.”

He does. When their eyes meet, Aziraphale hands him a mug of tea. It’s not so hot it will burn his fingers, but it’s still perfectly warm enough to fend off the chill. Crowley clings onto the handle. Some tea sloshes over onto his knuckles. He doesn’t care.

“I’m not taking it back from you,” Aziraphale says, so quiet, so firm. There is no room for argument.

He turns away then, picking up his own mug of tea with his head slightly bowed. Crowley will give him all the time he needs.

_I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that this is killing you. I’m so sorry for needing it. Why did you even give it to me?_

Crowley says nothing, just drinks his tea. He knows by now that you should never ask a question when you already know the answer.


	17. Furniture (2019)

It’s the chair that really twists the knife in. What a ridiculous pretence of civility. The wheels scrape along the floor but somehow don’t leave a mark. It tells Crowley everything he needs to know. _Oh yes, we’ll kill you without blinking, but it wouldn’t do to get blood on the carpet._

Crowley grits his teeth with the effort of keeping up Aziraphale’s posture as Michael shoves him into the chair. He can picture so vividly what Aziraphale would do. Rigid, straight back, don’t let them see you shake, keep your hands relaxed. Don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing your nails dig into your palms. Of course, Crowley is sure Aziraphale’s heart would also be pounding in his ears, just as his is. But, he would keep his breathing consciously even. Crowley has seen Aziraphale stand tall for centuries, even when his whole world has been rocked a thousand times over.

_Didn’t they ever see how magnificent you are?_ he thinks, ignoring Sandalphon’s nasty little smile. _Mountains could move underneath you, and you wouldn’t let it show._

The ropes rub against his wrists harshly. Crowley does his best not to let a flicker of discomfort pass across his face. _Well, of course he would never show it,_ a distant part of his mind prompts. _Not until he’s sure it’s safe._

Echoing footsteps. A grating, booming voice: “Ah, Aziraphale! So glad you could join us.”

Gabriel clenches his shoulder, icy and powerful. Crowley resists the temptation not to bare his teeth. He thinks of comfort and soft red velvet, of a familiar couch and set of armchairs.

_Aziraphale, I promise you_ , Crowley thinks, unmoving as hard plastic digs into his back. _You’ll never have to sit here._ _You’ll never have to come back here again._


	18. Porcelain (2019)

They are both tipsy on a few more glasses of champagne than originally planned. Their table has long since been left, but they’re still lingering at the Ritz’s reception. Aziraphale feels buoyant and giggly. No more looking over shoulders! The prospect that they can stay for as long as they like is overwhelming.

Well. Aziraphale laughs as Crowley’s fingers come dangerously close to tapping on a glass cabinet, showcasing various gifts. They can stay for as long as they like, provided the staff have endless patience for them.

“Angel, look!” Crowley breathes. His glasses have slipped, just enough for Aziraphale to see his eyes are wide in wonder. “It comes in a _box_.”

Aziraphale looks at the cabinet. There is a porcelain tea-set on display, finely adorned with paintings of forget-me-not flowers. The cups are nestled inside an open, sky-blue box.

“So, it does,” Aziraphale says warmly.

Crowley’s eyes widen even more. “I could just buy you it.” He looks stunned, as if this is suddenly the most thrilling, most important news in the universe. “I _could_. Just like that!” He clicks his fingers, but Aziraphale realises, he’s not even using a miracle, just showing how quick the ‘ _that_ ’ is. How wonderfully human.

“You are ridiculous,” Aziraphale says, and means _I love you so_.

Crowley’s face softens into a smile. “Well,” he says. “We’ve got time for ridiculous now, haven’t we?”

The answer is Aziraphale reaching up with a searing kiss of champagne and laughter.


	19. Jade (2011)

Crowley finds Aziraphale pacing around the bookshop, muttering something under his breath. He coughs pointedly, with a little hum at the end to hopefully ease the tension.

Aziraphale whirls around. “So,” he says, a high note of anxiety creeping into his voice. “How did it go?”

Crowley waves him off. “No Antichrist news. We can relax—well, for now.”

Aziraphale stills, shoulders dropping with a sigh. “That’s something, I suppose.”

“Yeah.” Crowley leans against one of the shelves (just the ones reluctantly hosting the Jeffrey Archer books, he’s not a complete idiot). “S’all much ado about nothing, honestly.”

Aziraphale smiles with wide sincerity, like it’s surprised him. “Now, was that one of yours or one of mine?”

Crowley is about to respond that the play definitely wasn’t one of Hell’s, but he’d hardly think it was one of Heaven’s either, before he realises what Aziraphale actually said. He didn’t say _yours or ours_ , he said _yours or mine_. For once, Heaven and Hell aren’t even in the equation.

“You know, you’ve got to give the man himself some credit,” Crowley says, the blithe tone a small attempt at covering how much those words have warmed him. “I only ever tampered with Hamlet.”

Aziraphale’s smile turns distinctly sly. “Oh, I don’t know. I think perhaps you’re selling yourself rather short.” He blinks, as if a thought has just occurred to him. “Do you know, I think there’s a new production of _Much Ado_ tonight? At Wyndham’s, I believe. We could have a night off.” He nods, decisively.

“Oh, yeah? How are we wangling that one past head office?”

Aziraphale tuts in warning, somehow saying _Kindly don’t remind me of the stress I’m trying to avoid_ without words. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something creative. Goodness knows, I could do with a laugh.”

“Oh, thanks very much,” Crowley quips back, suddenly feeling lighter than air. He gestures outside. “I’d better get to it, then. Head-start at the box office or something.”

But, Aziraphale is already walking right past him, opening the door with a flourish. He turns back, eyes glittering with mirth. “You always end with a jade’s trick,” he calls, almost sing-song. “I know you of old!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess which version of much ado they're going to see ;) also, more fun info on the line Aziraphale is quoting here!: http://truecomplaintshakespearelaw.blogspot.com/2013/06/a-jades-trick.html


	20. Platinum (1981)

Crowley is much drunker than he thought he’d be. The plan was to get just on the right side of _merry_. Said plan flew right out of the window about thirty minutes ago as he turned on the radio, ready to listen to the singles charts, and got the fright of his life when Dagon’s voice crackled through instead.

He thought he had at least a few more years before Hell got to grips with technology. Typical that they’d choose now of all times to catch up.

Now, Crowley is putting all his concentration into making sure the radio plays this year’s Christmas Number One, and _only_ the Christmas Number one.

_“But don't forget, it's me who put you where you are now. And I can put you back down too.”_

It’s a cracker of a song. Destined to go platinum, if Crowley has anything to do with it.

He doesn’t even hear his phone ring. But, because it’s Aziraphale calling, for once the phone does the decent thing and allows his voice to filter through anyway.

“Hello? Crowley? Goodness me, what is that infernal racket—”

_“Don't, don't you want me? You know I don't believe you when you say that you don't need me.”_

“Aziraphale!” Crowley calls. Amid everything, he still expects Aziraphale to somehow hear him, so it happens. “Happy Christmas!”

“You are a trifle early, my dear. Good grief, I can hardly hear you, won’t you do something about that noise?”

“’Fraid not,” Crowley says, so casually. “Been playing up, can’t fix it.” His concentration wavers a little as he strains to hear Aziraphale, and the song jumps, judders forward: _“Don't you want me, baby? Don't you want me? Oh!”_

“Well, I was… thinking,” Aziraphale says, each word carefully weighted, “as it’s approaching the end of the year, it would be—prudent to—um, consolidate our annual… arrangement, as it were.”

The more office-speak Aziraphale uses, the more certain Crowley is that certain Archangels are being utter arses. Plus, Crowley knows that’s also code for _: I have a Christmas hamper of wine ready, and it would hardly be festive to not share it_. He thinks of Aziraphale’s blissfully radio-less bookshop.

“Perfect,” he shouts over the music. With one fierce lunge, he throws the radio against his window until it smashes satisfyingly. Even in his less than sober state, he can recognise it’s hardly a perfect solution but, well. It’ll do for tonight.

“Crowley, was that part of the song?!”

“Don’t ask questions at Christmas, angel! I’ll be right over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is it illegal to talk about Christmas in May?! ;)


	21. Brass (1984)

Aziraphale cherishes any moment where he stumbles across Crowley by chance. It’s becoming an increasingly rare occurrence as the years go by, both now leaning towards pre-arranged times, just in case anything—(God forbid?)—happens.

Aziraphale is out walking when he notices a small crowd of people gathered around the bandstand. It’s the shock of red hair he notices first; that and Crowley’s height tends to make it comfortingly easy for Aziraphale to spot him in a crowd. And, of course, Aziraphale doesn’t know any other person who can somehow stand tall, but also slouch just so at the same time.

Aziraphale edges a little closer, just enough to not strain to see Crowley’s face. He looks relatively relaxed, head tilted slightly in thought. There’s a brass band playing, Aziraphale realises, the bandstand filled with players and music stands. He can hear the faint, tinny melody of _The First Noel_ drifting across on the wind.

Crowley’s mouth curls a little, a tiny downwards motion. Contemplative. Sad? Aziraphale knows Crowley can get like this, in certain quiet moments when he doesn’t think he’s being watched. He can never quite pinpoint what it is, but Crowley always seems to draw himself back just in time—so it appears like nothing more than wistfulness.

The carol ends, and then the band begins playing a bright, fast-paced version of _Jingle Bells_. There’s a muted ripple of laughter through the crowd. Aziraphale does not think it is a coincidence that people are parting in such a way that smaller children can have an ideal view of the bandstand. Crowley ducks his chin behind his coat collar, but Aziraphale can tell he is smiling.

The wind picks up slightly, turning more biting. Crowley shivers, blows air on his hands. Aziraphale aches, suddenly, to be able to give him… closeness. Warmth.

He clicks his fingers.

Crowley jumps at the sight of his hands, now wearing black woollen gloves. He turns, and Aziraphale can tell precisely when he has been spotted, because he can pick out the sound of Crowley’s laughter anywhere.

Crowley grins, and waves, and Aziraphale loves him.


	22. Copper (1601)

Crowley slaps his hand on the table decisively.

“Right, then,” he says. “Next round in—heads or tails?”

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose slightly while he thinks. There’s a great moment of deliberation, and then he nods.

“Tails,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley flips the coin. It’s done with more force than planned, and he has to teeter precariously in his seat to catch it. He places the coin on the back of his hand, quickly passing a palm over it. “Ooh,” he says. “Heads, I’m afraid.”

Aziraphale gasps. If Crowley didn’t know him any better, he would say he just looks scandalised. But, the angel’s lips are also twitching up at the corners, like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.

“I _knew_ it,” Aziraphale says. “Oh, you old rogue.”

“Me?”

“Crowley, you know full well how that coin _actually_ landed, I _saw_ you, it was hardly subtle.”

“Oi, cheeky!” Crowley gestures at their now empty glasses of beer. “My coordination is-uhh, afflicted!”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. He snaps his fingers, and their glasses are obligingly refilled. “Well,” he says, with an exaggerated huff. “I suppose you could pay me back—”

“Come off it, you didn’t pay anything for these.”

“—by teaching me how you do it.”

Crowley blinks. “You want _me_.” He points at himself, just in case Aziraphale’s forgotten. “To teach _you_.” Another point. “How to… _cheat_. At flipping a coin?”

“Honestly, do keep up, dear.”

Crowley takes a contemplative sip of beer. “S’at how they sort things upstairs nowadays? Flip a coin for whoever’s drawing the short straw?” He leans back, certain that Aziraphale will tease him relentlessly for the mix of sayings.

But, it’s quite clearly the wrong thing to say. Aziraphale narrows his eyes, and folds his arms. “Really, not everything is about heaven, Crowley,” he says testily.

There’s an uncomfortable pause. Crowley sets down his drink. “Oh,” he says uselessly. “Sorry.”

Aziraphale sighs. His hands twist together on the table. “Oh, it’s—quite alright, I don’t know what I…”

Aziraphale’s voice fades away as Crowley rolls the coin across the table. It nearly falls off, but Aziraphale catches it just in time.

“You’ve got to learn how to flip it properly before you do anything else,” Crowley tells him.

Aziraphale smiles. “Show me, won’t you?”

Crowley leans across the table. Their hands touch, brushing together as Crowley demonstrates, and he pretends as if his mouth hasn’t become suddenly dry.

“Just rest it on your thumb—no, for Satan’s sake, that’s not your thumb!”

Aziraphale chuckles. “You know, you are far too easy to wind up.” He fiddles with the coin, looking at Crowley all the while. “So,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Heads or tails?”


	23. Topaz (41 A.D.)

“Fancy meeting you here,” Crowley drawls, not very convincingly. He’s lounging on a set of stone steps, stretched out on his back. His glasses are off, one arm thrown over his eyes. Everyone seems to have the good sense not to disturb him, people climbing the remainder of the steps at a distance.

Aziraphale sits down, just a hair’s breadth away from Crowley’s toes. “That hardly looks comfortable,” he says in greeting.

“It issss.” Crowley stretches out further, toes brushing against Aziraphale’s toga. Aziraphale could draw back but, well, he is perched rather precariously here. “S’ _warm_ ,” Crowley adds. He moves his arm enough to crack one eye open, blinking up at Aziraphale. “How’s your sight-seeing?”

“Oh, good. Um, yes, jolly good,” Aziraphale says. He does not mention that he has spent the whole morning and most of the afternoon dithering around the forum, repeatedly scanning the stalls of jewellery. Up until now, he has justified the ring he bought as a souvenir purely for himself. Never mind that the amber stone reminds him strikingly of Crowley’s eyes, or that the humans believe it somehow provides the wearer protection while travelling. How foolish.

And now, well. After today, he has no idea when he’ll see Crowley again.

Aziraphale watches him, how his crown of laurels glints in the sun. Crowley sighs, long and content.

“Are you sleeping?” Aziraphale says. His voice has dropped to a whisper without him even thinking about it.

Crowley’s lips curve into a little smile. “Off and on.” He sits up the tiniest amount, both eyes squinting a little. “Not _all_ of us are swanning about on annual leave.”

“Do keep your voice down. It’s hardly—well, _official_.”

Crowley chuckles then settles back down again.

“It went well, then?” Aziraphale prompts. “Your… work?”

Crowley shrugs. “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.” His body stays perfectly still and relaxed, betraying nothing.

And, that’s the trouble, isn’t it? Aziraphale does not know how to separate Crowley’s bravado from the truth. He shouldn’t be prying, anyway. They should not even be meeting at all, but… they’ve crossed that bridge long ago, haven’t they?

Crowley yawns. “You know, between you and me, angel,” he murmurs, “I think humans are much more capable of doing things than either of our sides lets on. They don’t really need us.”

“Well, they must need us, Crowley,” Aziraphale reasons. “Or we wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

“Ahh, no, I’m not complaining about _being_ here.” Crowley waves a hand vaguely. “Much more scenic than downstairs, I can tell you that.”

“I can only imagine,” Aziraphale says primly. _Isn’t earth wonderful? Do you love it as much as I do?_

There’s a little twinge in Aziraphale’s fingertips, suddenly, a slight prickle of discomfort. It feels like a mild sunburn. He glances up with a frown, and can somehow feel his stay here coming to an end. He sighs.

The miracle is the quietest thing. Aziraphale keeps the touch feather-light, a silver chain displaying the ring, placed around Crowley’s neck. Crowley does not stir, his chest rising and falling slowly.

Aziraphale stands. Gently nudging Crowley’s feet with his sandal, he says, “Don’t lay about all day, will you? Those steps will not be kind to your back.”

Crowley chuckles again, languid. “So, ‘don’t let the sun go down on me, here’, hmm?”

“Yes. Something like that.” Aziraphale hovers. How to part when you never should have met in the first place?

Crowley’s eyes open slowly, hazy with sleep. “Until next time, angel.”

It’s funny, Aziraphale thinks. He’s sure any other angel would take those words to be a threat, especially from a demon. But, to him, they just sound like a promise.


	24. Stone (3004 B.C.)

By the time Crawley finds Aziraphale again, the water is already up to his thighs.

For an angel, Aziraphale is certainly managing to throw stones aggressively. He hurls them so far that Crawley can only hear a distant splash rather than see them land. It’s a monotonous rhythm: Aziraphale stooping down, clutching a handful of stones, then grunting with the effort as he throws each one individually. Crawley can’t help noticing that his fingers look painfully red, the delicate skin around his nails damaged by the sharp edges of stone. His hair is soaked through, clothes dripping wet and plastered to his skin.

“Do you think I _enjoy_ this, Crawley?” Aziraphale says suddenly. His voice is flat. He does not look Crawley in the eye. He runs the final stone through his fingers, over and over. _Careful_ , Crawley aches to say. _I don’t want to watch you bleed_.

“Never said you did, angel,” he replies quietly.

He feels, not for the first time, like he’s treading a very fine line, here. He does not want this to be their final conversation. He waits, considers. One minute. Two. He starts: “I tried my best—”

Aziraphale cuts him off. “Well, that doesn’t mean much,” he spits, as icy as the water surrounding them, “coming from a demon.”

Crawley does not rise to it. “There’s a few kids, somewhere on the ark,” he says, tone carefully measured. “Thought you might like to know.”

Aziraphale exhales sharply through his nose. His arm pulls back; the final stone soars in a high arc, then falls. “My instructions,” he says, so clipped, “were _quite_ clear.”

The feeling surges up from deep within Crawley, an overwhelming wave of bitterness. He tries to keep his voice level, but he can’t stop some of it from seeping through. “Forget it, then. Glad to see your side has the right perspective.”

Aziraphale rounds on him, chest heaving. “It’s all very well for _you_ to—to—” He swallows, hands empty and shaking. He looks away. “Don’t presume to know everything, Crawley,” he says. His voice sounds wretched.

For a sickening moment, Crawley thinks Aziraphale will leave then and there, even just keep walking as the flood rises around them.

Aziraphale glances at him. “If I were to… happen across some children, then the—the right thing to do would be to ensure their journey is safe.”

Crawley closes his eyes for a second, and hopes that can count as a thank you, for now. “It’s just between us, I promise you,” he blurts out, because he can’t quite bite his tongue in time.

Aziraphale laughs in a strangled sort of way, like he hadn’t expected to even be able to. “How strange. A demon’s promise. Any angel would say it’s a trick.”

“It’s not a trick,” Crawley says.

Aziraphale sighs again. He quickly swipes at his eyes with a sodden sleeve, then his wings abruptly appear and unfurl. “That’s the thing, isn’t it, Crawley. I don’t really _know_ that.”

Crawley watches him fly back to the ark. _But, angel_ , he thinks, his heart lifting, _you still took the risk._


	25. Silver (1941)

They had kept the lights on, but the blackout curtains mean the bookshop looks dim, everything hazy, slightly out of focus. It makes Aziraphale’s eyes feel heavy, like he has to put in too much effort in order to see things properly.

For a little while, he even forgets Crowley is there, sitting on the couch beside him. It’s easy, these days, for his mind to wander. Easy to fall into habits, create patterns without noticing. It’s only when the sixpence falls and clatters against the table that he even realises he’s been fiddling with it in the first place, flipping it over and over and…

Crowley reaches forward and picks up the coin. “You’re a dab hand at that now, angel,” he says.

“I just dropped it,” Aziraphale points out.

Crowley flips the coin with a casual grace. It twirls in the air, only briefly sparkling in the dim light. But, Aziraphale still feels like he has to close his eyes against the glare, just for a moment. The coin lands on the back of Crowley’s hand. He covers it with the other, the movement so achingly familiar that Aziraphale glances away.

“Right, then. Heads or tails?”

Aziraphale laughs. “Oh, right now you could tell me it landed any which way, and I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.” He blinks slowly, rubs at his eyes.

“Oh, you’re tired,” Crowley says, very gently.

“There have been some rather long years.” And then, because his thoughts are blurring together, and he can no longer keep track of what they shouldn’t say out loud, Aziraphale adds, “I missed you.”

Crowley does not speak. He moves forward again, removes his glasses, and sets them down on the table. When he leans back against the couch, he moves gingerly, until he’s clearly giving up most of the space. It takes all of Aziraphale’s willpower to not rest his head on Crowley’s shoulder.

He doesn’t realise his eyes have closed until Crowley asks, “How’s your Latin, Aziraphale? Better than your French?”

Aziraphale starts at the sound of his voice. He pries his eyes open to find Crowley looking at the sixpence, holding it up to the dwindling light. There’s the smallest of smiles on his face, one that Aziraphale is far too exhausted to decipher.

“ _Fidei defensor_ ,” Crowley murmurs, tilting the coin backwards and forwards. He has such a way of sounding out words, like he’s discovered them anew. Something in Aziraphale settles at hearing it.

“I’m afraid I’m doubting my… capabilities in English, at the moment,” Aziraphale says. His own voice sounds far away. He can feel each word trailing off and blending into the other.

Crowley’s laughter is almost silent, a little exhale through his nose. “Well, that’s alright,” he says.

Aziraphale feels a warm touch to his fingers, the sixpence being carefully pressed into his palm. He has a drifting thought that the blackout curtains must be exceptional, because he cannot see anything at all. A warmth around his shoulders. The brief sensation that he’s falling, but it’s not frightening at all. Soft fabric against his cheek. Somewhere above, Crowley’s voice: “Shh, it’s alright. You just rest now.”

Somewhere in between the space of sleep and dreaming, Aziraphale imagines himself being brave enough to say the words. _Don’t you know, the only faith I was defending was that you would come back?_


	26. Photos (2019)

Crowley has kept the thought to himself for so long, that he should really be used to it by now. But, his breath still catches a little whenever it crosses his mind.

Like now, waking to find Aziraphale still in bed. He’s reading, white sheet folded at his knees. A spot of morning sun is seeping through the window, illuminating his hair and eyes. Crowley thinks it would make a stunning photograph.

The thought makes something in his chest twist, a muscle memory of pain. Because, oh, he’s thought that so many times, over so very many years: Aziraphale turning to him, half-smiling; Aziraphale pointing towards the London Eye, the light hitting him just so; Aziraphale whenever he’s just watching the world go by, and he gets that preciously rare, dreamy, far-away look.

Aziraphale turns a page, shifting slightly as he does so. When he settles back against the headboard, his eyes meet Crowley’s.

Aziraphale smiles. “Oh, hello,” he says, warmly. “Good morning.” His smile falters slightly. One hand leaves the book, reaching down to gently stroke though Crowley’s hair. “Are you alright?”

Crowley hums in acknowledgement. He leans into Aziraphale’s hand with a movement that’s almost a nod, but not quite. “Why?” he asks. His voice feels too quiet, like he’s still to wake up properly.

Aziraphale’s fingers pause in thought, then resume their slow rhythm. “You just… you looked like you were… somewhere else, for a moment. That’s all.”

Crowley closes his eyes. He could fall asleep again, just like this. He has the time, now.

“Was just a thought. Silly.” And, Aziraphale’s fingers must be working their magic, because he’s already mumbling the rest against the pillow without consciously thinking about it. “Was just… the way you looked, just there with the light. Would be a lovely photo.”

“Oh. Well.” Crowley doesn’t need to look to know Aziraphale is blushing. “I—thank you, my dear.”

“Always wanted to,” Crowley continues. His thoughts are leaps in front of his disjointed words. Behind his eyelids, he can see Aziraphale’s smile grow throughout the centuries, a breath-taking change from trepidation to sincerity. “But, didn’t want to risk anyone from—anyone finding them. Couldn’t do that to you.”

He feels Aziraphale’s hand still, then move away entirely. When Crowley opens his eyes, Aziraphale is staring down at him, mouth slightly open. He looks so profoundly moved that Crowley sits up, reaching across to touch his knee in reassurance.

“You…” Aziraphale’s voice is suddenly hoarse. He clears his throat. “You know, you can take one now. If—if you wanted to.”

And then, Aziraphale is nodding earnestly, answering the question Crowley has not voiced. His hand fumbles over the bedside cabinet, knocking more books to the floor. He passes Crowley his mobile, even though five minutes ago, Crowley is certain Aziraphale would have sworn he had no idea phones could take pictures.

“You can take one now,” Aziraphale repeats, a little breathless, as if he’s winded by a delayed realisation. As if he’s saying _we’re free_.

Crowley readies the phone, and wills his hands not to shake. “You—well, you can’t look at me like that!” He laughs past the lump in his throat. “It has to seem candid.”

“Like this?”

Aziraphale opens his book again, making a great show of peering down at it. He looks so delightfully coy. The faint remembrance of pain in Crowley’s chest fades away entirely. He deliberately waits until Aziraphale can’t hold the pose any longer. Aziraphale snorts, and starts to truly laugh, tilting the book down as his eyes glance up towards Crowley again.

Crowley takes the photo, and captures everything he needs: Aziraphale, radiant, incandescently happy, caught in between a smile and laughter, saying Crowley’s name.


	27. Books (2019)

To be perfectly honest, Aziraphale couldn’t care less about the state of his bookshop right now. But, he puts on a good act of looking around, because Crowley had fallen silent during their walk home from the Ritz. Aziraphale thinks perhaps the familiar background noise of him fussing around the shop will be enough to draw Crowley back.

It’s a strange thing, to search for anything out of order when you weren’t even there to witness the destruction in the first place. Aziraphale is surprised to learn he can find no trace of it, not even a shoddy glamour concealing singed shelves. Adam’s work has made it seem—rather, has made it _so_ the fire never happened at all. The only real evidence is the new collection of Richmal Crompton’s _Just William_ series.

Aziraphale chuckles under his breath, tapping one of the red spines fondly. “Well, apart from some new adventure books, everything is as it should be.”

He turns around to see Crowley, back pressed rigidly against a nearby bookcase. He’s gripping the shelf behind him so fiercely that his knuckles are chalk white.

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale takes a step towards him, just as there’s the sound of splintering wood. The shelf promptly collapses, sending books tumbling to the floor. Crowley starts, but does not pull away, still grasping the remnants of the shelf in his hands. Then, his chest heaves with something that looks far too much to be just a gasp. Before Aziraphale can reach him, Crowley’s knees hit the floor. He drops the shelf, hands scrabbling to retrieve the books.

“Shit,” he’s saying, hissing through clenched teeth. “Shit, shit, _shit!_ ”

Aziraphale is momentarily speechless. Then: “Crowley,” he says again. “Crowley, stop. Stop.”

Aziraphale kneels in front of him. He makes sure to reach for the same book Crowley is nearing. Their hands meet, and Aziraphale keeps his touch light and careful.

Crowley is staring down at the floor. “I’m sorry. I’m—so sorry if they’re torn or—or—”

“Crowley, it doesn’t matter.”

Crowley laughs without humour. “You’re just saying that to be kind.”

“Certainly not.” Aziraphale taps the back of Crowley’s hand gently, and Crowley looks up, meeting his gaze. “You could rip up a book right in front of me, and quite frankly, my dear, I wouldn’t give a damn.”

Crowley laughs again, now sounding much more like himself. “Jesus, did you say that on purpose? Have you even seen _Gone with the Wind?_ ”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” Aziraphale turns Crowley’s hands over, palms up, and tuts softly at the pieces of wood embedded there. He moves his fingers slowly across Crowley’s skin, healing until no wood remains. “There,” Aziraphale says. He rubs a soothing circle over the back of Crowley’s hand. “No harm done.”

“I’m sorry.” Crowley’s voice is rough, like he’s talking about far more than just the books. “I thought I—I thought I could…”

A beat. “Crowley,” Aziraphale says, very seriously. “You do know if… if it’s too much, we can leave here.” Crowley’s lips part in astonishment. “Anywhere you like,” Aziraphale adds.

“You—no,” Crowley says, almost toneless, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

Aziraphale indicates the books. “They’re only things.” He looks up at the ceiling. “It’s just a building.” When he looks back, Crowley is shaking his head in bewilderment. “I’m—I’m incredibly sorry,” Aziraphale says, now holding Crowley’s hand properly, “to have given you such a warped view of my priorities.”

With a tug of his hand, Crowley pulls Aziraphale close, until they are kissing, Crowley’s lips trembling slightly. When they break apart, Crowley stays close, Aziraphale feeling his every shaky breath.

“It’s not just a building,” Crowley whispers, with such feeling that Aziraphale’s heart leaps to kiss him again. “I don’t—” Crowley swallows. “I don’t want it to—I want to love it, still. I always have.”

Aziraphale thinks the only truly right thing he can do, is to kiss him again.

“Alright,” he murmurs against Crowley’s cheek. He pours all of his love into the words, praying that Crowley can hear this wrapped amongst it: _We shall figure this out together, one step at a time._ “Alright, darling.”


	28. Sculpture (2019)

Crowley does not really have any expectations for how one should react after avoiding Armageddon by the skin of your teeth, soon to be followed by your own imminent demise. But, he’s still fairly certain that it shouldn’t involve Aziraphale walking into his flat, and promptly bursting into laughter. Then again, if Crowley has learnt one thing in 6000 years, it’s that Aziraphale can always find a way to surprise him.

“What on earth—” Aziraphale wheezes. He points (not a very effective one, as he’s practically doubled over). Then, Crowley realises exactly what Aziraphale is looking at.

_Maybe She got it all wrong, actually. Maybe **this** is Hell_.

“Shut it!” Crowley says, without any real bite to it. He cuts in front of Aziraphale to stand in front of the statue, defensively spreading his arms wide. The back of his neck and his ears feel very hot. “It’s—it’s symbolic.”

Aziraphale gets control of himself for just long enough to sputter out, “My, what a _symbol_.” Undeterred, he peeks behind Crowley’s arms, hands reaching up to lean on Crowley’s shoulders.

And, Crowley can’t help it; he starts laughing, too, sliding down to the floor, feeling light-headed with it. Aziraphale is soon by his side, their shoulders brushing against one another.

When they have trailed off into just the remnants of giggles, Aziraphale cranes his neck to peer up at the statue. “What is it supposed to _be_ , anyway?”

Crowley tilts his head back, too. It’s really not the best viewing angle.

“Uhh, well—um, s’evil—uh—triumphing over good.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, lips twitching. “Triumphing. Is that the term nowadays?”

Crowley knocks their shoulders together. Then, he sighs, tipping back until he’s lying completely on the floor. “Ah, well. Least we got one last laugh in before—before…”

And, suddenly, nothing seems funny at all.

Aziraphale places one hand on Crowley’s knee. “Pessimism doesn’t suit you, dear boy.” But, there’s a sober note in his voice that wasn’t there before, something dangerously close to being sombre.

There’s a heavy silence. Crowley considers sitting up, but worries that will somehow make the night end quicker. “Should I… open something?” He lets his voice rise in an attempt at light-heartedness, anything to dispel the sudden cloud. “Champagne?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. “Oh, no. We need to have something to celebrate with later.” He says it mildly, but his eyes are burning with determination. Crowley takes a deep breath, and prepares to hope again.

Something must show on his face, because Aziraphale’s expression softens. He smiles. “We’ve got out of some nasty scrapes before, haven’t we? I think we can manage one more.”

“Together,” Crowley confirms. He wavers between a mixture of sounding off-hand and completely, utterly sincere. “Come hell or high water?”

From above, Aziraphale waves a torn scrap of paper into Crowley’s vision.

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale says. “Precisely.” His eyes are gleaming, a smug little look that says: _I do believe I’m about to be **ever** so clever._


	29. Coral (2013)

Crowley had left Aziraphale at the ornaments section of the garden centre. He isn’t long, soon careening into view with a trolley that, by all rights, should be buckling under the weight of the numerous flowers and pots within it.

Aziraphale blinks. “My goodness. Do we really need so many?”

Crowley lets go of the trolley to brush soil off his hands. Aziraphale convinces the poor thing to _buck up, and do please stop before crashing into that aisle, if you would be so kind_.

“Do you want to be a _convincing_ gardener or not?” Crowley says. “Right, reckon that’ll do us. C’mon, angel.” He grabs hold of the trolley again, steering it towards the tills. Aziraphale follows, one step behind.

“Ooh, Crowley!”

“Nope,” Crowley replies, without so much as glancing backwards.

Aziraphale considers pouting, but, really, there’s no point if Crowley isn’t watching. “I think they’d be charming.”

“Aziraphale, I’m not buying _one_ garden gnome, never mind a whole entourage of them.”

Aziraphale catches up to Crowley’s stride just enough to nudge the trolley. Crowley rolls his eyes.

“Aren’t they popular these days? … _Keech?_ ”

Crowley snorts while unloading the plants onto the till conveyer belt. “You wouldn’t know _kitsch_ if it bit you on the arse.”

They pay with a miraculously exact amount of cash, Crowley even listening to the cashier’s sales spiel without complaint (“I sort of had a hand in that script,” he’ll later reveal. “Wouldn’t really make sense to cut her off.”)

They are almost out of the garden centre when Aziraphale hears the girl from the till call, “Oh, excuse me, sir!” He falls back to see her heading towards him, hoisting up a pot filled with deep coral flowers. “Your partner forgot one.”

“Oh, dear girl, thank you.” Aziraphale takes hold of the pot, and it has the good sense to weigh nothing at all.

By the time he catches up to Crowley in the car park, the Bentley doors are wide open. Crowley is meticulously arranging the flowers onto the back seat of the car. His lips are pulled back into a snarl that, if it were anyone else, Aziraphale would have found concerning.

“You’ve only just bought them, my dear, surely they don’t need a talking to already.”

“Just letting them know what’s what. I’m not tolerating any spilled soil.”

As Crowley straightens up, Aziraphale hands over the remaining pot. “You missed one.”

“Whoops,” Crowley says, a word Aziraphale still cannot believe is part of his vocabulary. He takes the plant, and manages to squeeze it inside the car.

“Quite a splash of colour, that one,” Aziraphale says, as Crowley reverses out of their space. “Does it mean anything?”

Crowley gives him a sideways glance. “Oh, no no no, don’t start—no the language of flowers rubbish. These were all bought specifically so _Brother Francis_ can look like he bloody well knows what he’s doing.”

Aziraphale looks out of the window with an overdramatic sigh, not bothering to hide his smirk. “Oh, but if they _did_ have a meaning, I do wonder what it would _be_.”

Crowley scoffs, but Aziraphale waits expectantly. Sure enough, Crowley eventually considers the reflection of the flowers in the front mirror. “Hmm… pink dianthus.” He chuckles. “That’s boldness.”

“I suppose that’s rather appropriate,” Aziraphale concedes. “If we pull this— _plan_ off.”

Crowley suddenly breaks out into a wide grin. “Nah,” he says, and he sounds both distant and fond, like he’s remembering something from very long ago _(“Oh, you’re an angel, I don’t think you can do the wrong thing.”)._ “I think that’s been true for as long as I’ve known you.”


	30. Pearls (4004 B.C.)

The demon Crawley has never considered what rain would feel like, largely due to it not being invented until this very moment. Still, he has a very large inkling that it would not normally involve being sheltered by an angel’s offered wing.

Crawley sticks a hand out warily, and silently marvels at the feeling of the droplets pattering against his skin. It’s a little cold, but not exactly unpleasant—until, that is, the rain starts to pelt down in heavy droves. He quickly withdraws his hand.

He has a nasty little vision of how this would play out if he wasn’t being sheltered: his hair and robes drenched, leaving him icy cold and miserable. He stares at the masses of grey clouds, and holds back a sigh. They look like they must surely go on and on for eternity.

Yet, when Crawley glances over at the angel Aziraphale, his head is tilted up slightly towards the sky. He shows not as much as a nose wrinkle of discomfort, even as water trickles down from the curls in his hair to his face.

“Gosh,” Crawley says. “Do you actually _like_ it?”

Aziraphale hums. “Do _you_ not think it makes a nice change?”

“I’m a demon,” Crawley points out, as if Aziraphale could forget. “Don’t think we’re meant to notice nice things.” He does not mention that his current point of comparison is quite literally fire and brimstone.

Aziraphale’s mouth does an odd little quirk, like he’s trying not to smile again. “Ah, silly me,” he says. “I didn’t realise being a demon left one entirely unaware of their surroundings.”

He opens his eyes, and Crawley is surprised to find that they still look just as bright, even when there is no sun to illuminate them.

(At this very moment, the only thing Crawley has to compare them to is the stars. However, he will later find that he also rather favours the comparison to pearls. This will hold true until a certain playwright uses them in quite a different context: _“Of his bones are coral made./Those are pearls that were his eyes./Nothing of him that doth fade.”_ For Satan’s sake, he had no right to make it so gloomy).

“Besides,” Aziraphale adds, “it’s not as if a storm can last forever.”

Crawley raises an eyebrow. He could make a snippy remark about how he reckons She could make it so, but he somehow doesn’t quite have the heart to. Perhaps Aziraphale has a point. If this day has proven anything, it’s that an awful lot can change very quickly. An angel could be issued a flaming sword one moment, and then give it away the next.

“Look.” Aziraphale points at something far in the distance. “See how those clouds are thinning, just a little? Yes, I do believe tomorrow will be a very fine day.”

“Lovely,” Crawley says, with what he does not know is the world’s worst attempt at sarcasm. “And I suppose you’re to be around for all the days, angel?”

Aziraphale nods, with what he does not know is the world’s worst attempt at concealing a smile. “I daresay you are too, demon.”


	31. Time (2019)

As the sun starts to rise, it crosses Aziraphale’s mind that he hasn’t experienced time the way he would have expected. He would have assumed that some eras would become foggy and distant, like a pile of once well-remembered books left to gather dust. Not an intentional abandoning, but inevitable all the same.

It turns out that couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s rather like all the years have become one in a large, clear lake, one that no longer has to remain hidden. He is free to let things rise to the surface: how the way the light frames Crowley’s hair makes him think of wall in Eden, of a demon reassuring a doubting angel that he did the right thing.

Or how Crowley’s endearing little half-smile makes him think of Rome, of oysters and wine, and of marvelling at their meeting.  _ Yes, share this with me, let us share everything. _ He thinks back to just yesterday afternoon, when he had taken Crowley’s hand at the Ritz, in full view. How he had thrilled at the thought of people watching them, of seeing their joined hands, and the champagne, and thinking,  _oh, they must be celebrating their anniversary, surely_.  And, how he had finally allowed himself to think:  _ oh, yes, please assume. It must look like we have loved each other forever. (It’s true, it’s true, it’s true). _

Aziraphale feels Crowley stir, lying next to him in bed. One eye opens, and Crowley half-yawns as he asks the question: “What’re you thinking about?”

_ You_, Aziraphale thinks.  _ Us. Everything— all the very many things that have led us to here. _

He lies down next to Crowley, and kisses him soundly in reply. He means  _good morning_ and  _ you’re a wonder _ and  _ can you believe that we have all the days stretched out before us? _

When the kiss ends, Crowley is smiling. “You can’t kiss me like that whenever you don’t know how to put something into words.”

“That’s a pity.” Aziraphale traces along Crowley’s eyebrows and nose with his finger, just because he can, just because he loves him. “Well, then. What shall we do today?”

Crowley smirks. “We can actually enjoy some ice-cream, now.”

Aziraphale’s laugh is equally delighted and amused. “Goodness, is that all?”

“Yeah, that’ll do us.” Crowley stretches like a content cat. “We have world enough, and time.”

“Careful,” Aziraphale says, pulling back the duvet, “or I shall have no choice but to accuse you of  _ reading _ .”

When Crowley doesn’t laugh, Aziraphale looks over to him. He is sitting up, now, eyes wide open. He looks a little stunned, as if their conversation has only just registered, that the whole day is well and truly theirs.

“Sorry, I just—” Crowley reaches across the bed, and holds Aziraphale’s hand tightly. “All I’ve wanted is time with you,” he says, so simply, so honestly, that Aziraphale has to sit down.

“Yes. Oh, I’ve been the same,” Aziraphale breathes. And, just before he kisses Crowley again, this time, he makes sure to say the words. In the end, it’s easy, like 6000 years is just a ripple between them. “Since the Beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s gorgeously sunny right now so I’m squinting while hoping this is all formatted properly on mobile haha! Thank you so much for all your kind words on these ficlets, I’ve looked forward to writing and posting them every day! In the first couple of weeks of May, I was ill with a stomach flu, and seeing the response to these genuinely brightened up my days so much. 
> 
> Also, happy 1 year anniversary to Good Omens, the tv show! So happy to have found it. I’m participating as a writer in the good omens mini bang, so expect a “full-on” fic some time in July! I’ve fallen in love with writing about these two and I’m so glad people are enjoying it. Take care! <3


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